


The Way We Uncoil

by Duskscribe



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Eventual Smut, Hannigram Reverse Bang Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25457623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duskscribe/pseuds/Duskscribe
Summary: Will moves to Louisiana for the sake of his safety and sanity - it takes just one well-dressed stranger to tumble his foundations.Written for the 2020 Hannigram Reverse Bang, with art by @CallMeNephelia.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 7
Kudos: 82
Collections: Hannigram_Reverse_Bang_2020





	1. One

A mosquito buzzes in Will’s ear. 

It’s a bad season for bugs this year - a long, hot, humid summer, with plenty of sluggish water and shallow puddles for them to lay their eggs in, until everyone is suitably miserable. Will wishes he could say that he’s used to it, but of every aspect of being at home (including the muggy, soul-draining heat) the bugs are the worst. 

He doesn’t make a fuss about it. He’s not a fuss making kind of guy, anyway, just rolling down his windows a little more in search for a breeze (the AC’s busted, again, and he’s still scrounging up the funds for a proper replacement. The air smells of honeysuckle and moss. Sunlight streams through the low hanging boughs overhead. His tires meld roadkill further into the asphalt. It’s the sort of slow, dirty summer that calls to mind months both good and bad. 

The notion of introspection is enough to get him turning up the inane radio talk show - until something catches his eye. 

It shouldn’t have caught his eye. A car at the side of the road is one of the most common sights, whether on the busiest highway, or the laziest small town. Still, the latter (including Will’s sleepy little parish) don’t often see their share of fine Bentleys. 

His first instinct is to drive past it. He rarely follows his first instinct these days. 

His pickup rumbles as he pulls off the road. The driver, currently bending over to inspect a tire, looks up as he approaches. 

“Car trouble?” 

(Small talk is one of the worst forms of human niceties, Will ruefully thinks, but they’re an unfortunate necessity of polite society.) 

If the man minds the obvious question, he doesn’t show it. (Or at least, he has the decency not to question it, for which Will is grateful). The dappled sunlight plays across his face when he glances Will’s way, the sharp lines of his cheekbones standing in harsh contrast to the softness of his chin, and the delicate shape of his Cupid’s bow lips. Will’s attention turns to his suit before he can be accused of staring; which is a relief, since the pastel patterns of his paisley tie are loud enough to excusably draw his notice. 

Rich. Ostensibly rich, with the spotless shoes and the car and the cufflinks glinting on his sleeves (cufflinks, who wears cufflinks in their day to day life?). 

“Yes,” the man needlessly says. “It seems I’ve hit a nail.” 

Will doesn’t have to bend over far to see it. A half rusted thing, the head barely visible among the treads. He gives a noncommittal hum at the sight of it. 

“Well… It’s far enough from the tire wall that you could patch it. Do you have a kit on you?” 

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know the proper procedure if I did.” 

Figures.

Will straightens up. He’s not under any obligation to help the guy (and he can’t say he has much goodwill to someone who obviously flaunts his decadence), so… 

The man keeps looking at him. Will wonders what he sees in his holey jeans, the mud crusting his sneakers. Nothing good, probably. 

He sighs. 

“Your best bet is probably to call a tow,” he says, sticking a hand in his pocket. But something keeps nagging him, so after a moment, he adds, “Or if you feel safe enough to drive on it, my place isn’t far. I can patch you up there.” 

The man doesn’t arch an eyebrow (maybe because he doesn’t have any, Will realizes), but there’s a small amount of curiosity there. 

“Dangerous times, to accompany strangers to their homes. One never knows what to expect.” 

Will snorts. 

“If you’re worried, I could just kill you right here. We aren’t exactly surrounded by people.” 

Calloused, careless words that leave his mouth without thought, but the stranger doesn’t seem to mind. Hell, his lips just slightly tick up at the corners, a weird humor about him. 

“You’re assuming I’m unarmed.” 

“You’re assuming I couldn’t compensate.” A weird silence falls between them for a moment, Will shuffling as he steps back. “You don’t have to take me up on that. I could just go get it and come back.” 

The man studies him for a beat, and then another (sizing him up? some paranoid part of Will’s mind wonders), before finally tilting his head in agreement. 

“I wouldn’t be opposed to following. Thank you.” 

A brief bob of Will’s head, a muttered ‘no problem’, before he steps back toward his truck. “Still, you’re welcome to ride in the back, if you don’t mind sharing with Lily.” 

The man’s eyes slide to the open windows, just in time for Lily (some sort of bull mastiff mix, Will thinks, sweet and friendly despite a life of overbreeding) to stick her head out and give a welcoming ‘boof’. 

The polite distaste in the stranger’s face is enough to make him smile. 

“...As tempting as the offer is, I would prefer to follow. Thank you.” 

And just like that, Will has a Bentley in his rear view mirror. 

He refuses to think about the offer he’s made or the man following behind him, just keeping his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel. It’s something of a privilege, he guesses, to feel safe enough to lead a stranger down one turn, then another, before their tires crunch down the rock driveway to his house. Still, he knows by now that it’s never other people that he’s afraid of. 

He pulls off to the side and slides out to direct the Bentley, pointing to a spot before his work shed. He ventures in without waiting for the stranger to follow, retrieving his patch kit from the variety of motor parts and fishing tools stacked around the concrete space. 

The stranger is patting Lily’s head when he emerges. At least he has something of a heart. 

“Do you do this for a living?” The man inquires. Will can practically feel his eyes on the half put together motor on his work table. It’s enough to wonder if his eyes are elsewhere - on his little home, white vinyl siding dulled by exposure, window panes smudged from the touches of cold, wet noses. Any discomfort is shoved away as he kneels down to tend to his tire. 

“Not cars, specifically. I usually work with boat motors.” 

“I assume the business is good, given these parts. Is that specifically why you chose Cheniere?” 

Will spares him the briefest look. The man seems so tall when he stands beside Will like this, a monolith peering down from an impossible height. Or maybe he just feels distant. Difficult to say. 

“You’re asking some leading questions, Mr…?” 

“Merely making small talk. Unless you’re opposed?” 

He hadn’t risen to the bait. Will wonders if it would be much better to work in awkward silence, or at least try to force some socialization. Neither seems appealing. 

“I chose Cheniere because I felt like Cheniere. Florida was my second choice.” 

“Any spot in particular?”

“Fort Meyers, probably. I prefer the gulf over the Atlantic.” 

“Sandy beaches and crystal waters, along with a noticeably older population. Cheniere has more character.” 

Will snorts as he pries the nail from the tread, and quickly fills the void with a spiral saw.

“Is that why you chose the area? Because of its ‘character’?” 

Tourists of the ilk are a dime a dozen. People locked in their predescribed notions of food and music and culture, leaving with only fantastical stories and flecks of paint from cheap plastic beads on their necks. 

He doesn’t look up, but from the shadow beside his bent knee, he can see the man tilt his head. 

“You seem opposed to the notion.” 

Again, there’s no offense in his voice. Will wonders what it _would_ take to offend him. 

“People don’t usually want to look past the shine of bayou mysticism.” 

“I find New Orleans’s charm beyond the bright lights of the main streets. The sparks of the truest form of the American spirit reside in the intense mingling of decadence and poverty, in the forgotten alleys and smoky speakeasies of jazzmen.” 

Will pauses. It’s a brief stay in the midst of his work before continuing. He doesn’t have much time, with the air slowly leaking out. 

“...I hope you’re not romanticizing poverty.” 

“No more than the blues do.” There’s a smile in his voice. “My childhood was often spent wondering where the next meal would come from. Difficult not to appreciate some connection to one’s roots.” 

It’s a personal sentiment, one that Will privately echoes with. He doesn’t confirm nor deny it, though some begrudging appreciation for the man begins to grow. 

“Yet I’m assuming you aren’t a local, based off of the accent.” 

“I have not yet picked up on that distinctive quirk, no.” 

If the man opposes standing there in the hot sun, with nothing to do but watch Will work, he doesn’t say it. He just stands there, watching - understandable, since it’s his car, but the back of Will’s neck still tingles. He’s never met someone who retains such a laser focus on the object of their attention.

“Are you going to tell me, or do you want me to guess?” 

The chuckle from above is quiet. A well trained sort of response, Will thinks, far too perfect to feel genuine. 

“As charming as that may be, I’d rather your focus remain elsewhere. I was born and raised in Lithuania, though I spent much of my adolescence in France, then Italy.” 

“A worldly array. Why here?” 

“Because I enjoy it. I arrived in America to study at Johns Hopkins, but found the northeast not quite to my taste. Far more seasoning in this part of the states.” 

Will would’ve counted it as a translation error if it weren’t for the man’s perfect (if poetic) grasp on the language. 

“I don’t know if I would describe the area as particularly ‘seasoned’.” 

“And what would you call it?” 

Will offers a one shouldered shrug, tugging the insertion tool out with one swift tug. He draws his knife from his pocket to trim the plug’s edges as close as he can. 

“Home.” 

It’s not quite the right answer - anywhere is home for a kid who’s always new in town. The man doesn’t reply, and Will doesn’t elaborate, so he’s left to pack up his tools in silence. The whole encounter is odd to him. Either he’s far more starved for company than he’d thought, or the man somehow managed to interest him. Maybe a healthy mix of both. 

He shoves the thought away. The man only watches as he retrieves a tire pump from the shed, the air filled with an obnoxiously loud buzzing as it does its work. 

And then, it’s over. 

Will straightens up. 

“That should be enough to get you to a service station,” he says. When he looks to the man, he allows the briefest moment of eye contact. The look there is, relievingly enough, inscrutable, save for the faintest traces of gratitude. Will glances away before he can think too hard about it. 

“Thank you. You’re responsible for saving the lives of the crawfish in my trunk.” 

Well. That explains why he’s down in these parts, anyway. Will allows himself a wry smile. 

“I’d consider it more a stay in execution, but… You’re welcome, I guess.” 

The man smiles at that. 

“I’d be pleased to pay you for your services.” 

Will’s shaking his head as soon as the word ‘pay’ leaves his mouth, hoisting the air pump by his side. “Just consider it a random act of kindness.” 

There’s that same odd, inscrutable look there - Will can’t tell if it’s approval or disapproval. 

“Fair enough. You have my thanks, then.” 

“It’s nothing, really.” 

Still, the man offers his hand. A brief moment of hesitation (Will’s are still well coated in grease and tire lubricant), before he wipes his palm on his jeans and finally shakes his hand. Oddly calloused, for a man so posh. There’s a certain glimmer in his eyes as he considers Will. When the breeze shifts, there’s the scent of bergamot and blackberries. 

“No good deed goes unpunished.” 

Will’s left lingering in his spot when the stranger steps away. The Bentley reverses, and for a moment, their eyes meet through the windshield. 

And he’s gone. 

It takes a cloud passing overhead for Will to finally stir from his reverie. Maybe it has been too long since he’s had some non-canine company. 

“Think he wears that cologne all the time, girl?” 

Lily offers only a thoughtful _boof_ in reply. 

Will shakes his head. The air pump is tucked away, the fishing cooler retrieved from his pickup, and Will’s focus narrows to his chores. 

Yet when his fork sinks into the pale flesh of that night’s dinner, his thoughts turn to blackberries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RT the art for yourself!!! Find it at https://twitter.com/callmenephila/status/1286146354033688577?s=20


	2. Two

Will doesn’t drive into the city often. He tries not to, if he can avoid it. Too loud and too crowded, with enough lingering dangers to have him looking a little too long at passersby. There are some things Cheniere lacks, though - one of which being specialty pet shops. 

There’s something to be said for avoiding the omnipresent hell that is online consumerism, he wryly muses (or maybe he wants to make himself feel better for driving an hour for specialty ear drops). 

The cashier knows him by name, which is far too much familiarity for him to be wholly comfortable. But Will smiles, and focuses on the frames of their glasses, and assures that, yes, Winston is doing well, and don’t worry, Zoe’s adjusting to her new diet just fine. A nod, and then he finally steps out to the humid summer outside.

There’s a sandwich place not far from the pet store. Small, and quiet, with distant trumpets over the radio and a bored high schooler leaning against the counter. Will slides into a booth with a Cuban sandwich and a lemonade, and gazes out the window. 

People-watching is low stakes enough to keep his interests. Moms pulling tantruming kids along by a tight grip on a wrist. Lost, reddened people taking photos of anything that looks remarkably interesting. Pairs walking close together, with inside jokes and raucous laughter. 

Yet something odd catches his eye. 

He’s come to this place long enough - he should recognize the sights from the window. It’s like trying to find differences between Photo A and Photo B, simplistic little puzzles from a kid’s magazine. He rules out the crowd, the album shop across the street, the tattoo parlor, that ice cream place that’s under new management for the third time in recent memory, before his attention is finally drawn to the roof. 

Gargoyles stand on the end. Or not gargoyles, exactly. Will confuses them for the fake owls people place out to keep vermin away, but a quick wipe of his glasses gives him a better look. 

Buzzards. Their bald heads hang low. Their wings spread wide, but there’s no movement - no powerful beats or meaningful twists to keep one aloft while coasting. Just the subtle shuffle of the breeze through their primaries. 

Will sees another on his way to the post office. Another while grabbing groceries. Two stand on the building across the street from the coffee shop, Will’s eyes on them as the line moves one infinitesimal step at a time. He’s only been in these parts for a few years, but he can’t accurately recall seeing them in the city this often - the bustle usually scares them off. His hand is nearly on his phone to look it up (it has to be some weird phenomena, right? Shame his grad school specialty had been bugs, not birds), when the door opens. 

It remains perfectly not his problem, up until the moment that someone steps beside him. 

It’s an all too familiar feeling. The slightest peek to the side is enough - plain, dark blue suit. Thick shoulders. The sort of set to his hands that gives the distinct impression of someone who knows how to brawl, and will wipe the mat with anyone who dares to try. 

“A little hot outside for coffee,” Jack Crawford says. 

It doesn’t matter. Will doesn’t mention the bait when he orders his coffee (hot) and makes for the exit. Jack doesn’t either. He just follows, opens his mouth, and- 

“No.” 

“You haven’t even heard what I have to say.” 

“I don’t need to know what you have to say. I changed my number for a reason, Jack, and it wasn’t to get a new area code.” 

Letting the door close in Jack’s face doesn’t work, because of course it doesn’t. The man remains as stubborn as ever, lingering behind Will’s every step like a particularly nasty chest cold.

“I wouldn’t come to you if it wasn’t serious.” 

“When is it ever not serious? Because I don’t remember our cases having any sort of levity.” 

And even bringing up  _ cases  _ is a particular sore point, Will’s lip curling at the mere mention of it. As if the lives and the pictures he was forced to deal with could be summed up in such a neat of a word as ‘case’. Open and shut, no room to properly describe the foggy middles. 

“Trust me, I’ve tried to do it on my own. You just know this crazy better than anyone else.” 

There’s a sort of hysterical sound buried in his chest. Will doesn’t know if it’ll manifest as a laugh or a scream when he opens his mouth, so he keeps it shut until the feeling passes.

“Well... Takes one to know one.” 

“You aren’t that kind of crazy, Will.” 

“Yeah, because I had that mental breakdown just for fun. See me in the hospital next week, when I pull another kitchen knife out of my shoulder.” 

There’s no way to make his discomfort any more obvious. It doesn’t matter what he says - Jack keeps pushing, and pushing, following him down sidewalks and across intersections. There’s the brief impulse to run, dismissed in the next second - Will knows Jack well enough to know that if the running starts, he’ll just give chase. Or slam him against the wall of the nearest alley, whichever is more likely to produce results. 

“I mean it, Will. There’s-” 

Will stops dead in his tracks. Jack has to stop short to prevent running headlong into his back, leaving him uncomfortably close when Will turns on his heel to face him. He meets his eyes, because maybe that bit of uncomfortable connection will be enough to get Jack to actually see. 

“And you don’t think that I don’t mean it too? You saw what the work did to me last time - it's not good for me, and I’m not good for it. I can’t have another situation like the Ho-” Even the name is enough to give Will pause. He sucks in a slow, harsh breath, wills the associations away, and continues, “...like what happened. I can’t do that again.” 

There’s sympathy in Jack’s eyes. And maybe that’s the worst part of it - the acknowledgement that the work fucks him up, the clear  _ knowledge _ that it fucks him up, and still pushing forward anyway. 

“You survived what happened to you. You survived, because that’s the kind of person you are. I don’t doubt that with the right support, you’ll survive this too.” 

Will makes a sound both wry and incredulous. “What kind of support could you possibly offer? Because after spending three months doing in-patient sessions with Doctor Chilton, I think I can safely assume that therapy doesn’t work on me.” 

All of the well-knowing looks and the smug assumptions of knowledge. The slimy insistence of pushing thoughts into his brain. Even the faintest recollection of a metallic pen tip between chapped lips brings back a certain revulsion and the urge to startle someone so badly, the tip becomes jammed in a rather unfortunate place. 

“Alright, so Doctor Chilton’s methods didn’t work with you. We’ll find you someone that does work.” 

“I assume you don’t have the time to go doctor shopping, if it’s urgent enough for you to come all this way.” 

“I don’t have to go doctor shopping because I have just the man in mind.” 

“And you assume he’ll be much different.” 

“Yes, because this one was specifically recommended by Doctor Bloom.” 

That’s a low blow. Will isn’t sure if he manages to hide the way his hands curl into fists, for just the barest moment. Not anger for Alana (mostly because he finds himself to be hard pressed to be angry with her, from her quiet consideration to the flashes of genuine humor), but for the effect Jack intended to have. Will trusts Alana probably more than anyone - Jack clearly knows it. 

“That doesn’t mean it’s a guarantee to work.” 

“It’s enough of a guarantee to help me sleep at night. Maybe it’s enough to do the same for you.” 

Jack’s hand slips into his jacket. 

Will has to bite his tongue to keep from saying that he doesn’t have the time nor sanity left to rely on nebulous ‘maybes’. He steps back instead, fists jammed in his pockets. The envelope in Jack’s hands might as well be Pandora’s box - yet he knows that opening it won’t even offer that faintest glimmer of hope beneath the deluge. 

“I can’t, Jack. Find someone else.” 

Jack’s eyes are steely. 

“Eight bodies in four months, Will. You think you can sleep with that?” 

The barb lands as intended, yet Will still steps back. Any weakness now will be blood in the water.

“I can damn well try.” 

That’s all Will allows himself before finally turning away. Some part of him expects Jack to follow, accost him still, ride his bumper all the way back to his little house and wait outside like some inevitable spectre of death. But when Will gets to his car, the only eyes on him are looking for his parking spot. For now, he’s safe. 

Yet there’s no relief to be gained when he finally sinks into the driver’s seat. The leather sticks to his arms, the belt burns his hand when he reaches to buckle himself in. 

On the drive home, his eyes become drawn to the tops of buildings. Buzzards reside as if frozen there still. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do ya'll think Will actually needs his glasses, or he just keeps them to avoid eye contact? I can never decide...


	3. Three

Work. 

Work is good. Work is simple. Work consists of Will taking motors apart piece by piece, and figuring out what makes them tick. There’s no shadowy figures lingering in the halls of his mind like uninvited houseguests, or skeletons hanging in barely locked closets. He works, he goes home, he sleeps. Simple and clean. 

Or it had been. 

Avoiding the thoughts makes that itch in the back of his mind that much worse. Will hasn’t been watching the news as closely as he could’ve, so he doesn’t know the sort of killer that Jack had referenced. There’s the briefest consideration to catch up as he works (according to the ads that keep popping up on his computer, Freddie Lounds has broadened her horizons into podcasting. Will considers it both an intelligent move into the true crime craze and an excellent opportunity to invest in a good adblocker), gone ignored. 

Jack knows that once that door is open, it’ll be much harder to shut. It’s why he does what he does, muddying the river bottom of Will’s mind until the water is filled with silt and debris. It’d be impressive, if it didn’t leave such an impact. 

Fortunately, Will’s stubborn too. 

He’s working down at the marina that day. Little repairs like this make up the bulk of his income - easy, on-site, get the money and go. He can kneel beneath the engine and the owner can be out on the water before sundown. Convenient for everyone involved. 

The crackle of his radio just barely overshadows the screech of metal against metal.    
  
“When you’re fly fishing, for those of you who don’t know,” one of the hosts begins, with the sort of voice that makes one imagine the tobacco on his breath. “You’re using this special lure that looks like an insect. That’s the fly. Now, I make my own flies out of things like rabbit fur, or deer shed, or whatever I find out on my walks - so taking parts of one kind of animal, using it to imitate another kind, in order to catch a third kind.” 

It’s been a while since Will’s been properly fly fishing, he muses as he grabs his wrench. His kit’s been gathering dust for a solid few months now. 

“So I’m on the river with this guy, and he fetches something from his tackle box. A really beautiful looking fly. Now, I only ever used trout flies, which are kind of brown or gray. Trout are simple - they like nightcrawlers, hackle, that sort of thing. But this fly, it was meant for salmon. It was tied with bird feathers and silvery thread, maybe an inch and a half long. Just these emerald, and golden, and ruby-colored strips of feathers from these exotic birds, maybe 10 or 12 species in total. And they’re arranged in this really beautiful pattern where the hooklets and barbules all connect… Like, I dunno, an Impressionist painting, or a dream of an insect.” 

“Sounds like it really made an impact on you,” the second host pipes up. 

“Yeah, well. When you’re used to using sinew and bits of found bone, something like that looks pretty impressive, you know?” 

“Might be just as gory, if you think about it. There was this guy - now, I’m kind of fuzzy on the details, so don’t quote me here - but some European guy, who made a killing making these fancy salmon lures for the Victorian types. He stole specimens from museums and all, really important, beautiful, endangered birds, like Darwin’s finches and birds of paradise and anything you can possibly think of, just to harvest the feathers. All because he wanted to buy some kind of fancy instrument with the money.” 

“Well. Let’s just hope he was good at it.” 

“He must have been, right? The sacrifice for art and everything.” 

They share a laugh. 

Will leans close to the engine he’s working on, wire brush in hand. Replacing the anodes is easy business, but it’s amazing how people just won’t keep their own property clean.

“You know, I even went to a trade show once, and there was this booth, and the guy just had a huge box full of parakeet heads. And their beaks were kind of open, like they were chirping when they-” 

“Oh, jesus.” 

“I mean, it was probably fine, right? Everyone was walking around and watching him work like it was fine.” 

“I guess. But you don’t really think about it, do you? Makes you feel sorry for the little suckers.” 

“At least they’re… Useful? Though maybe it’s a little morbid to think of it that way. Like they could be standing around and singing, but now they’re catching your supper.” 

Shoes crunch against gravel. 

“Really makes you think.” 

Will turns down the volume when a shadow falls overhead. 

“I’m not finished yet, Mr. Leeds. I’ll give you a text when I’m done, I still need to-” 

He glances up. 

A fine suit. A loud tie. A face with the sort of harsh angles and interesting lines that one would see in a marble statue. 

Of all the people Will never expected to see again… 

“Oh.” 

He straightens up from the cigarette boat, wiping his hands on a nearby rag. If it’s any assurance, the man seems just as surprised to see him as he is - though not displeased, if the tilt of his lips means anything. 

“Will Graham, I assume?” 

There’s the momentary, paranoid thought that he found the name associated with his address and has been tracking him down, but Will stamps it out. The stranger obviously has some money, and Will gets most of his business from word of mouth. It isn’t hard to put two and two together. 

“That’s me.” He offers his hand, and as before, the man seems not to mind any lingering grease as they shake. Still weird, but Will doesn’t mind eccentricities so much. 

“My apologies. I should have properly introduced myself the first time - I am Hannibal Lecter.” 

Hannibal. A weird name, especially for these parts. Will wonders if he gets teased for it (though judging by his demeanor, Hannibal isn’t a man who would stand for being ‘teased’). 

“Pleasure,” Will says, a nicety that he only half means. He shoves his hand back into his pocket once the contact stops. Hannibal is doing that thing where he’s watching him too closely again. “Can I do something for you, Mr. Lecter? I’m booked up for the rest of the afternoon, but I can fit you in somewhere else.” 

“Doctor Lecter,” Hannibal gently corrects. “And to be perfectly honest, I have an entirely different kind of business to discuss with you.” 

Will doesn’t catch his meaning until Hannibal retrieves an envelope from his pocket. 

Will’s seen it before. 

The pieces fall together all too quickly. 

“...Right.  _ That  _ kind of doctor.” 

Was it too much to hope for meaningless meetings, these days? 

Will turns away to grab his wrench again, bending close to the engine as if replacing the anodes will require the entirety of his attention. Hannibal remains there, undeterred. 

“Jack mentioned that you have some animosity toward psychiatrists. If you were under Frederick Chilton’s care for as long as he said you were, I’m unsurprised by your assumptions.” 

“Let’s just get this over with,” Will mutters. “I’m assuming you’ve read Chilton’s brilliant study on hyper-empathy and the human mind. You’ll know that whatever I am can’t be fixed.” 

“And you’re assuming that I would like to ‘fix’ you.” 

Will dares a glance. Hannibal’s attention never shifts. 

“That’s what Jack would want you to do, isn’t it? Pick up the pieces after I fall apart.” 

“You say that as if the cracking is inevitable.” 

“It is. It’s already begun.” 

It didn’t start the moment he saw Jack in that coffee shop. It started before that, when the occasional boredom itched beneath his skin like a wayward flea. It started the moment he ever thought he could make a difference and changed his major to goddamn  _ criminology _ . 

“What if I told you that I can help you fortify your walls?” 

Will snorts. The fresh anodes glint in the summer sun, almost blinding as he sets the spent ones to the side. 

“I’d assume you’d have a bridge to sell me.” 

Hannibal’s smile is annoyingly gratifying. 

“You do not run an engine until it breaks. With maintenance, and proper upkeep, we can keep you running even when the storm comes and the waters churn.” 

“You can’t promise that.” 

“No. But I can promise that I will try.” 

Hannibal’s gaze remains stalwart. Will can see why Alana likes him, he thinks - Hannibal remains calm and polite in the face of venom, seemingly unbothered by any rudeness Will has to offer him. It’s enough to have the tiniest deposit of guilt growing. 

And that guilt will grow. And grow, and grow, up until the moment Will breaks down. 

Damn Jack. 

The last anode is secure. Will straightens up, and looks at his work. A bead of sweat runs down the back of his neck to pool in his collar. 

Will takes a slow, deep breath, and holds his hand out to Hannibal. 

“...Eight bodies in four months, huh?” 

Hannibal doesn’t celebrate, nor mock his lack of conviction, for which Will is grateful, just setting the envelope in his waiting hand. 

“Make that eleven. Investigators discovered a new scene beyond Baton Rouge a half hour ago.” 

It’s like being doused in freezing water. Will’s eyes are sharp when he looks Hannibal’s way. 

“You didn’t think to lead with that?” 

“You seemed opposed to the idea.” Hannibal steps away, seemingly unruffled. “I would be willing to drive you there, if you would prefer to study the photos in the car.” 

“Yeah, just…” Will sucks in a harsh breath. A hand rubs over his face, some dry thought of  _ getting yourself involved again, Graham? _ ringing in his mind. “Let me pack up. I’ll be right with you.” 

There’s still time to run. Hannibal must be aware of the possibility, but he doesn’t mention it, only tipping his head to Will. 

“I’ll be in the parking lot.” 

And then, Will’s alone. His tools and the rotten anodes and his radio seem oddly hollow to him now, like props. His hand nudges the volume dial when he goes to pick up the latter. 

“-so, you know, he started young. Teenagers don’t exactly have a lot of capital, so he’d see these senior, but much less skilled fly-tyers get the best stuff, the cotinga and the honeycreeper and the lorikeets, and he wanted to get it so bad.” 

“Must’ve been rough.” 

“Yeah, to have your one devotion in life, to your art, always defined by a longing for what you don’t have. It’s like Hell.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fishing podcast dialogue was referenced pretty heavily from https://www.thisamericanlife.org/654/transcript ; which I totally recommend if you want a first-hand look into how BUCK WILD fly fishing is.

**Author's Note:**

> Big big thanks to @callmenephila on Twitter, who provided the prompt, art, and super helpful tips for this fic! She's a rad artist and an even radder person, so go ahead and shoot her some love! 
> 
> This is my first solo multichapter fic in a good long while, so comments and critiques are much loved and appreciated. 
> 
> Title is from the album Grace for Drowning by Steven Wilson.


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